“This has been too long, Margaret. You mustn’t leave again”
“No, father.” And when she released his hand he ran it fondly over her hair and cheek.
“Are you well, girl?”
“Yes-I am always well.”
“Let us hope that will always be the case, my dear. And my sister?”
“Aunt Bitty sends her love. She tells you not to trouble her further about Grandpapa’s portrait, as she refuses to trade it for anything you might offer.” Meg rose to her feet but leaned to kiss her father lightly on the top of his gray head.
“Not for anything, ha! Elizabeth will rue the day. The stubborn woman must saw it in two to fit it into that mousetrap of a home in Cheltenham”
“I believe she and Mrs. D-intend to employ it as a screen between the dining room and the parlor, father. Or should I say, to create a dining room and a parlor?”
They laughed. But even as quick steps in the hall announced Lucy’s arrival, Meg spared a glance out one window. Two men were still digging by the drive, but the tall gentleman had disappeared.
As Lucy ran to meet her, Meg opened her arms.
“Oh, Meg! I have so much to tell you! You will never believe all that has happened even since I last wrote! I did see the Brathwells at the Buxley assembly, though Mary Pickens took all their time to herself, of course. And you will want to hear the plans for town and see the newest patterns from Madame Corinne. She has consulted La Belle Assemblee and all the latest ..
“Lucinda,” her father warned, “you must take a breath.”
Meg hugged Lucy. Her sister had grown prettier since the previous spring; her confidence had grown. Yet she was still just as much of a chatterbox.
“Lucy, I hope you won’t think ill of me for coming home just now. You must know I only want you to enjoy town. I will not burden you”
“Why, Meg! Of course you shan’t burden me. I am happy you shall be with us. Have I not said so, father?”
Sir Eustace eyed Lucy with a raised eyebrow.
“You were always a good girl, Lucy, but you do carry on. I cannot believe any young man will long tolerate such unbridled jabber.”
Lucy tossed her blond curls.
“There is only one man who matters, father. The one I have chosen”
“If you have chosen, daughter, perhaps you can spare us the expense and inconvenience of town. Why does the young fool not come speak to me?”
Lucy blushed.
“Well, he … he does not yet know I have decided.”
Bertie shook a finger at Lucy.
“I know what you are thinking, Lucinda Lawrence, and it’s very bad of you. You’ve been making a nuisance of yourself. Leave the poor man alone.” He looked at his father. “She’s been pestering Cabot, father.”
“Umph! Mr. Cabot is not for you, Lucinda. Leave him be. When we get to town you shall find suitors enough.”
“Who is Mr. Cabot?” Meg asked curiously.
“Charles Cabot, the architect,” Bertie said. “I thought I mentioned him in my last letter?” When Meg shook her head, he added, “I knew him at university. He is much in demand-revised the grounds at Hume-Wilcote last fall, and the Duke of Clare has claim on him come May, for improvements to his estate at Abbey Clare in Kent. Cabot’s stopping here as a favor.”
“‘Tis an expensive favor, Bertram,” Sir Eustace remarked.
“Oh, stop it, father. You may tease him all you like, but you know he has worked wonders here. I thought I saw him out front just before you arrived, Meggie. Let me see if I can’t tow him in for you.” Bertie stepped swiftly into the hall.
“I must … I must go change from all my travel dust, father. You mustn’t wait supper. And Lucy, I have a gift for you from Aunt Bitty.” “
“You needn’t rush, Margaret,” her father advised as she moved toward the door. “You know we do not bend to the hour.”
I have been traveling since five this morning, father. I confess to some fatigue.” But her shoulders relaxed as Bertie returned alone.
“Apparently he’s suddenly ridden off somewhere” Bertie looked puzzled. “I thought we were to ride together tomorrow morning. Well, no matter. You shall meet him at supper, Meggie.”
She smiled wanly and excused herself. She could not have explained her panic. To have that stranger-staying here. With her family at Selbourne. Sitting down with them to supper! She had come home to uneasy shelter.
Chas had turned and fled. He had watched her up the steps, but as soon as Bertram had reached to pull her indoors, Chas had turned abruptly and walked rapidly away.
He had slipped in through the gate to the kitchen garden and leaned against the cool stonewall, closing his eyes and listening to his heart pound. Appealing. Appealing! His grandmother had known how it would be. You must see for yourself, she had said. And now he was struggling for composure while hiding in the kitchen garden.
Even that had been a poor choice, for when he opened his eyes he still saw her-in the garden she had planned. This would be no sanctuary. And at any moment someone might move to a west window and spot him.
He thrust himself away from the wall and hastened across the garden, her garden, to the west gate and the stables. He quickly saddled a horse himself-the same bay stallion he had grown to appreciate over the past few weeks. Then he set out on a tear for the north boundary. He had intended to go the next morning; he would have to revisit the site with Bertram on the morrow. But just now he needed to escape the house. From any other direction he could still see at least part of Selbourne’s gray stone. In his present mood he would seek it out and stare at it and he knew he could not stare at it.
Meg Lawrence was not for him. Yet in those few seconds on the drive he had felt an instant, fierce urge to claim her.
Chas let the horse have his head, racing toward the woods at a run. The drumming of the bay’s hooves echoed his heartbeats. Only as they reached the trees did he pull up and move carefully amidst the branches and tangles. Fallen leaves and pine needles were soft beneath the horse’s hooves; the late afternoon shadows were long. Chas was acutely aware of the scent of the woods, the growing chill in the air, the occasional calls of birds high overhead. As his agitation eased he was alerted to something else as well-in the shadows of the trees, not more than two hundred feet from him, another rider observed him.
The man was trespassing. Having worked with the survey of the entire estate, Chas knew well where Selbourne’s boundaries lay. This intruder was a good quarter mile within the estate’s northern border. There was no reason for a tenant or neighbor to be visiting the property at this hour, or by this route.
He thought of a poacher-but a poacher would have fled at his approach. A poacher could not have afforded such a horse. And a poacher would not have been studying him, as though seeking to identify him. Chas set the bay to run at him.
Instantly the rider wheeled his mount, urging the animal to a dangerous gallop through the undergrowth. Chas chased him far enough to know that he had left Selbourne land and headed to the main road and the local town of Buxley. There were any number of places for him to hide on that route. And he had already vanished into the trees in the gathering dusk.
Chas drew his horse to a walk and turned back. The furtive rider’s presence had to be linked to the arrival of Meg Lawrence. And that led him to think of Sutcliffe.
Chas had thought at first to excuse the earl. After his own extraordinary reaction to the girl, Chas had been inclined to forgive the man’s enchantment. But now he suppressed all sympathy. Sutcliffe had stolen her once; he might be contemplating a second attempt. He had pursued her here on the very day of her return.
Chas’s immediate desire to protect her was intense. It served as a reminder of his sole image of her, standing by the coach in the sunlight, more dazzling than the sunlight. And though he had never proposed building an impassable moat on a property, he wondered if he should devise one for Selbourne.
Meg watched him return in the half-light
of dusk. He had superb form-he was an excellent rider. Better than excellent, for he was riding Arcturus, her father’s former favorite.
She wondered where he had learned to ride. Taller men sometimes looked awkward in the saddle; Charles Cabot was not one of them. Her father must have seen him astride. She knew her father would term him a natural.
And Arcturus! Never had the spirited bay looked so docile.
Meg moved away from the window. Her room had always provided refuge-after her mother’s death, after the disastrous weeks in town for her comeout, after Douglas’s duel. Now that Charles Cabot was working in the suite below, Meg found it less of a haven.
She carelessly pulled some items from a satchel. One look on the drive, when she could scarcely distinguish his face, when she had never heard his voice, when she knew little of him-one look could mean nothing. She had been tired from her journey, that was all, and disturbed by the unexpected presence of Sutcliffe’s agent. She promised herself that when she went down to dinner she would find Mr. Charles Cabot did not appeal in the least.
She felt brave until she met an excited Lucy on the stairs.
“Oh Meg, you must promise me. Promise me, please, that you will not … that you won’t … encourage him to … Oh, you know what I wish to say! It is so important just now that he..”
“Lucy, dearest. I have no interest in attaching your Mr. Cabot. I only hope that he deserves your regard. After all, sweet, a gardener..
“But Meg, he is so much more! Just wait, you will see. Father and Bertie like him. He was with Bertie at university. And he has traveled everywhere! You must not judge him so Meg, for he might be, that is, I think he might be …”
“I shall not harm him, Lucy,” Meg assured her with some amusement. “I am in no doubt of your esteem for him. I only hope that he returns your sentiments. Father and Bertie have counseled you to leave him be”
“They do not know what it is to … to care. But Meg, you do, so I am glad you understand.”
Even as she kissed Lucy on the cheek, Meg knew her sister was mistaken. She did not know what it was to care. She had never had that experience. She had only begun to live her life when others had been forced to lose theirs.
Bertie entered the hall and spotted them on the stair.
“What are you two doing up there? We’ve been waiting to go in to supper. You can have your natter later. Meggie, come meet Cabot”
She linked her arm through Lucy’s as they descended the last flight of steps, ashamed that she should cling to her little sister as though to a crutch. But she kept her chin high.
He was standing at her father’s side, in front of the fire. She noted everything about him at once-his height, his shoulders, his face, his eyes. For a second the drawing room, so familiar to her, seemed foreign. I have never been here before, she thought, lost in his deep brown gaze. Then she looked away, and smiled at her father.
“Meg, may I present Mr. Charles Cabot, architect and landscaper without equal. Cabot, this is m’sister, Margaret” Bertie had somehow managed to pry her from Lucy and push her forward.
“How do you do, Mr. Cabot,” she said. She found herself unable to raise her gaze above his neckcloth.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Lawrence” His voice was low and calm. This time he bowed formally, gallantly. She noticed that his dark blond hair caught the firelight. But his gaze shot up to capture her own. “I have admired your kitchen garden”
“Oh-” She struggled with the compliment, even as she watched a slow smile grace his face. “You must not make too much of a few herbs, Mr. Cabot. They grow almost like weeds” As he straightened, her attention fled once again to his neckcloth.
“They are most agreeably placed weeds, Miss Lawrence”
Meg focused on her father.
“Father, you must tell Mr. Cabot how disagreeable the process was by which we planted that garden. I believe you thought me stubborn”
“Indeed. You were a terror, Meg. You had the entire staff trembling for months. I shall never recover. But you were only sixteen, m’dear. And as Cabot says, the results were well worth it. I am only thankful”-and he winked at Cabot”that his own improvements have not been as disruptive”
“Perhaps they will be-now that Meggie is home,” Bertie suggested.
All of them laughed.
“I would appreciate Miss Lawrence’s advice,” Cabot said politely.
“Ah, do not wish it, my boy,” her father said. “Not if you still intend to finish by the end of the month.”
So soon! Meg hoped her face did not show her dismay. Yet she should have been glad.
I would like to see your plans, Mr. Cabot,” she said, this time looking to the fire instead of his neckcloth.
“I would like to show them to you, Miss Lawrence”
“But not just now,” Bertie said, “for I am famished,” and grabbing Meg’s hand he drew her quickly across the hall to the dining room. “What do you think?” he asked as he hovered next to her.
She had no time to respond, as her father and Lucy and Cabot had followed them into the dining room. Lucy sat directly across from her. Cabot kindly helped position her father’s chair at the head of the table, then took the seat to Lucy’s left.
“I understand you rode up to the north park this afternoon,” Bertie quizzed Cabot. “I thought we were to do that on the morrow?”
“We shall, Lawrence. Naturally I-was unable to address the task we’d discussed.”
“What do you intend with the north woods, Charles?” Lucy asked, and Meg stared-surprised that her sister should address him so casually.
“It could use some thinning to open cross views to the surrounding countryside. Just now it is quite a wilderness. A difficult ride, much less a walk. I wished your brother’s thoughts regarding its best use. The house cannot be seen from its furthest reaches, nor”-he paused-“can it be seen in its entirety from the house.”
“Perhaps we should take Meggie tomorrow morning as well,” Bertie suggested.
“I shouldn’t think that at all advisable.”
He spoke so abruptly that Meg forgot she was studiously avoiding his gaze. His own attention to her was very direct and serious.
“Margaret is an excellent rider, Cabot,” her father said. “You needn’t fear she will hold you up-as Lucy did the other day.”
“I do not question her skills, sir. I fear for her safety”
Bertie cleared his throat.
“I have not told you yet, father, that Joe Coachman said they were followed from Bristol, and then from the posting house at Marlborough, and that a rider passed them just shy of our gate. He peered in at Meggie.”
“The devil you say!” Her father looked livid. “One of Sutcliffe’s?”
“I fear so, father. The earl has not forgotten”
“Neither have I! Of all the impudence..
“Father, please do not excite yourself,” Meg said, reaching for his hand. “He is all bluster and bark, not bite. He would not dare approach me again.”
“Miss Lawrence, I must disagree.” Cabot drew her gaze once more. “For I startled a rider inside Selbourne’s north boundary this evening. And he was not neighborly.”
“That is … that is why you do not wish me to ride with you tomorrow morning?”
He nodded briefly.
“Mr. Cabot, this is my home. I refuse to be intimidated by Lord Sutcliffe or his lackeys.” She raised her chin. “I shall ride with you tomorrow.”
Cabot’s gaze held hers for a moment, then he looked across at Bertie.
“Well then, Lawrence,” he said with a tight smile. “Tomorrow we ride armed “
“I told you Meggie was a direction all her own, did I not?”
“This is not a humorous situation, Mr. Cabot,” Meg said, daring to glare at him.
“I understand that, Miss Lawrence. But do you?”
As she met his gaze, Meg realized she resented him for what he had just accomplished. He had
reminded her that she placed others at risk; he had reminded her that she was a prisoner in her own home. Nothing, it seemed, had changed.
“You will be able to ride out once we’ve assured ourselves that no one is lurking about, Margaret” Her father took her hand. “It is too soon. Let Bertram and Cabot reconnoiter on their own tomorrow.”
Meg swallowed her pride. She concentrated on the meal, until a discussion of Lucy’s little mare lacking exercise prompted Meg to look to Cabot once more.
“Where did you learn to ride, Mr. Cabot? I saw you return this evening on Arcturus. He is not an easy mount”
“No, I would never describe him so. But he is also a joy, as I gather you well know. Your father recommended him to me. I learned to ride when very young, at my grandfather’s stables near Milan. He was Italian, Miss Lawrence. From the Piedmont ” He added the last with pride.
“And his grandfather raced many of the horses,” Lucy added. “And there was also a castle, a-a castello! Did I say it correctly, Charles?”
Meg’s eyebrows rose.
“You speak Italian, Mr. Cabot?”
“Oh he does, Meg, and French and German and Spanish,” Lucy offered, as though she’d had a hand in the accomplishment. “Oh, and English too, of course”
“You must have a talent for languages,” Meg said.
“You are kind. But ‘twas rather a need to understand my family-an Italian grandfather, his English and Austrian wife, my French grandmere and her English husband..
“The late Duke of Braughton,” Lucy hastened to supply.
Cabot smiled at Lucy before looking at Meg once more.
“There is only just enough there to make me an Englishman.”
“And where is your home, Mr. Cabot?” she asked.
His reaction surprised her. For a moment he looked disconcerted. Surely the man had a home?
“Cabot’s been granted Brookslea, in Hampshire, by his uncle, the present Duke of Braughton,” Bertie said. “I say again-a fine place that, Cabot”
“So you live at Brookslea?” Meg asked.
“Not yet, Miss Lawrence. I visit on occasion. I have rooms in town, on Bond Street. And my work takes mewell, to Selbourne, for example.”
Quiet Meg Page 3